THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FROM    A    FLAT    HOUSE-TOP 


FROM  A  FLAT  HOUSE-TOP 


BY 


CHARLOTTE   HARDIN 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The   Four    Seas    Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


PS 

3SI5 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 


612754 


The  potter  slaps  the  clay  upon  his  wheel;  his  dreams 
are  true,  but  his  hand  has  trembled;  therefore  we  have 
left  him  bearing  clumsy  shapes  and  unlovely  outlines. 

But  come  to  the  shop  of  the  new  alchemist;  he  has 
there  the  magic  crucible  and  the  undying  flame.  Gather 
up  the  shards  of  your  broken  vessels;  in  each  one  there 
lies  a  golden  grain.  Out  of  the  broken  clay  he  will  re 
tain  only  what  is  fine ;  the  fragments  will  then  be 
shards  in  truth,  and  the  thread  of  gold  contained  in 
them  will  be  returned  to  you  as  a  bright  elixir.  For 
some  there  will  be  but  a  drop;  for  others,  a  goblet  full. 
Some  will  gulp  down  their  share  and  go  off  drunk  with 
dreaming;  others  will  carry  the  goblets  home  in  their 
bosoms  and  sip  them  secretly  in  a  quiet  place.  But 
there  will  be  something  for  all;  each  life  holds  a  grain 
of  beauty. 

Bring  them,  then — your  outworn  loves,  your  dead 
passions,  your  long-past  glimpses  of  peace;  the  green 
of  old  meadows  and  the  echoes  of  far-off  music.  They 
shall  be  returned  to  you  re-born  out  of  the  crucible  of 
the  new  alchemist. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

WIND  SCENTS 13 

CHANSON  Louis  XIII 15 

MUSINGS  OF  A  PRE-RAPHAELITE  PAINTER  .      .      .17 

A  BENT  TWIG  SPRINGING  UPWARD 19 

THE  DARK  LOVER 20 

THE  SINGING  SHELL 21 

THE  GIVER  OF  THE  GIFT  DIVINE 22 

WHEN  I  WENT  IN  SANDALS 23 

PIPPA  IN  THE  FACTORY 24 

HONEY  FROM  AFAR 26 

THE  FAIRY  WOODS 27 

SUMMER  LOVES 29 

A  FRAGILE  SNATCH  OF  PASSING  SONG  .      .      .      .31 

ANNE  OF  GEIERSTEIN 32 

[9] 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  BLAZE 33 

I  LOST  THE  COLORS  OF  THE  DAWN 34 

THE  NIGHT  WIND 35 

To  THE  MOST  LOVED 36 

HARP  Music 37 

A  FANTASY  OF  DANCE — AT  THE  ORPHEUM  .     .  39 

I  WAS  THE  SMALLEST  FAIRY 41 

THE  HONEY  BEE 43 

THE  LESSER  LOVES 45 

O  SOMEONE  IN  THE  DEEP,  DEEP  WOOD  ...  46 

THE  REFUSAL 47 

THE  SUNBEAM 50 

SUBTERRANEAN 51 

Too  LONG  I  SAT  AT  SPARTAN  BOARDS  ....  52 

THE  CARPET 53 

PASSION  IN  THE  BALLET — THE  FAVORITE  SLAVE  .  55 

CARYATID — RODIN 57 

FROM  A  FLAT  HOUSE-TOP 59 

[10] 


FROM    A    FLAT    HOUSE-TOP 


FROM  A  FLAT  HOUSE-TOP 


WIND  SCENTS 

The  songs  that  the  wind  has  sung, 
The  scents  that  the  wind  has  flung 
From  flowers  where  they  clung 
But  yesterday — 
These  are  too  sweet  to  linger  or  delay. 

The  songs  that  haunt  the  past, 

Th%  fragrances  too  faint  to  last — 

Will  they  never  come 

Wearily,  happily  home 

To  the  flowers  where  they  clung, 

To  the  heart  of  the  wind  that  has  sung, 

Forever  to  live  in  the  air, 

Forever  there? 

The  dreams  that  are  past  and  gone ! 
Is  there  not  one 
That  will  ever  come 
Wearily,  happily  home? 


Must  they  forever  fade 

Into  the  passing  shade 

With  all  the  passing  fragrance  that  has  clung 

In  long  dead  flowers, 

And,  with  the  dying  hours, 

Die  with  the  songs  the  dreaming  wind  has  sung? 


[14] 


CHANSON  LOUIS  XIII. 

Nay,  I  cannot  love  you  so — 

Now  you  choose  a  dragging  measure, 

Full  of  pauses,  stepping  slow 

At  the  flying  heels  of  pleasure. 

Come  from  out  your  high-walled  gloom, 

Let  us  make  a  holiday 

In  the  meadow's  pleasant  room 

Where  the  sliding  shadows  play. 

Here  in  golden  splendor  high 

Butterfly  loves  butterfly : 

Will  they  live  and  love  forever? — 

Never,  never! 

Still  and  still  you  sigh  and  plead, 
Still  and  still  I  love  you, 
White  the  little  breezes  speed 
Butterflies  above  you. 
Still  you  love  me,  while  the  sun 
Stands  so  high  above  us: 
Butterflies,  when  day  is  done, 
Who  will  think  to  love  us? 

While  there's  azure  in  the  sky 
Butterfly  loves  butterfly. 
Fluttered  pinions  in  the  air 
Catch  the  sunlight,  hold  it  there. 
Over  the  soft-lifting  breeze 
Now  the  drooping  branches  sigh — 

[15] 


Love  me  now !     Beneath  the  trees 

Spread  the  lightest  couch  of  love, 

But  above 

Let  there  be  no  canopy 

To  obscure  the  shining  skies 

Or  the  shadows,  flitting  by, 

Of  the  dancing  butterflies. 

Still  and  still  you  sigh  and  plead, 
Still  and  still  I  love  you, 
While  the  little  breezes  speed 
Butterflies  above  you. 
Still  you  love  me,  while  the  sun 
Stands  so  high  above  us : 
Butterflies,  when  day  is  done, 
Who  will  think  to  love  us  ? 


[16] 


MUSINGS  OF  A  PRE-RAPHAELITE  PAINTER 

High  in  the  trees 

He  balances — 

Gay-hearted  oriole!     Fluttering  down 

Willful  and  leaf-light  with  leaves  that  drift, 

Now  clear  in  a  rift 

Of  branch- fringed  sky, 

Now  dim  on  the  brown 

Of  russet  bark — 

And  hark! 

Rare  and  shy 

His  notes  begin, 

First  sweet  and  thin, 

Held  to  a  tippling  swell  that  ebbs  again — 

O  for  the  wax  that  dulled  the  sirens'  strain ! 

Birds  and  a  tree-top!     Such  a  combination 

Leaves  far  too  much  to  the  imagination. 

Here  are  my  colors :  how  one's  thoughts  run  riot 
When  any  noise  disturbs  the  woodland  quiet ! 
— What  silver-gray  of  lichens — tiny  trees 
That  branch  and  fork  like  any  forest  brother ; 
Moist  green  of  mosses :  deep  soft  velvets,  these, 
Tipped  with  a  jester's  cap  and  bells  of  coral; 
And  one  that  grows  supine ;  red-cupped,  another : 
A  creamy  tassel  fallen  from  the  sorrel : 
A  spreading  fungus,  colored  orange,  gold, 
Saffron,  all  shades  of  yellow,  metal-cold, 


Or  warm  with  shifting  sunlight — what  a  study 
Beside  the  toadstool  pulp  that  quivers  ruddy ! 

Another  strain! 

Up,  up  he's  borne  upon  his  own  refrain ! 

Rollicking  tree-tops 

Nodding  together, 

Gladness  of  bird  song, 

Blue-skied  fair  weather! 

What  if  the  day  stops? 

Days  are  so  long! 

Under  the  warm  shades 

Gay  fancies  throng. 

What  if  the  day  fades? 

After  a  night 

Tree-tops  and  birdsong 

Welcome  the  light — 

Rollicking  tree-tops 

Nodding  together, 

Gladness  of  birdsong, 

Blue-skied  fair  weather! 

He's  gone !     Oh  what  a  flight,  imagination ! 

Now  to  my  moss  and  its  configuration. 


[18] 


A  bent  twig  springing  upward 
From  under  the  weight  of  a  bird 
Nods  to  me  over  the  hedges 
That  the  fluttered  wings  have  stirred. 

Far  afield  in  the  noontide 
The  bird  has  sought  his  will : 
Still  lie  the  fluttered  hedges, 
And  my  answering  heart  is  still. 

But  far  in  the  dazzling  sunlight 
A-wing  with  a  joyous  bird, 
A  thought  of  mine  goes  straying^ 
That  my  heart  has  never  heard. 


[19] 


THE  DARK  LOVER 

When  I  heard  rhymes  of  a  dark  lover 
I  thought  they  meant  his  face — 
Browned  from  the  sun — a  gypsy  rover 
In  some  far  tropic  place. 

When  I  first  saw  my  own  dark  lover 
I  knew  they  meant  his  eyes, 
Where  as  at  night  I  could  discover 
Unending  mysteries. 

And  now  when  love  is  done  and  over 
I  know  too  true  and  well 
There's  many  and  many  a  darker  lover 
More  than  the  rhymes  can  tell. 


[20] 


THE  SINGING  SHELL 

I  name  you,  love,  and  all  my  words 
Are  murmurous,  a  leafy  throng: 
The  magic  of  your  memory 
Sets  all  my  words  to  song. 

Mine  but  the  fragile  shell  of  verse : 
But  hearken  where,  deep  hid  from  view, 
The  secret  murmur  of  your  life 
In  music  speaks  anew. 


[21] 


THE  GIVER  OF  THE  GIFT  DIVINE 

The  giver  of  a  tawdry  gift 
Goes  strident  through  the  market-place, 
And  cries  his  own  munificence, 
That  men  may  see  and  know  his  face. 

But  when  the  deeper  twilight  falls 
The  giver  of  the  gift  divine 
Comes  through  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
And  parts  the  tangle  of  the  vine, 

And  by  all  dim  and  devious  ways 
Steals  on  to  the  Beloved's  place, 
And  leaves  his  offering,  and  flies, 
Lest  the  Beloved  see  his  face. 


[22] 


When  I  went  in  sandals 
I  never  felt  the  dew; 
I  wrapped  my  cloak  about  me 
And  caught  no  hint  of  you. 

Cloakless,  without  sandals — 
The  very  rain  seems  new, 
And  every  twig  that  brushes  me 
Has  known  the  touch  of  you. 


[23] 


PIPPA  IN  THE  FACTORY 

I  who  would  sing  a  song 

Must  turn  a  machine. 

Out  in  the  country 

The  world's  growing  green  — 

Turn  again,  turn  again,  creaky  machine! 

Round  and  round — 

The  grass  on  the  ground 

Is  growing  in  rings,  in  rings,  they  say. 

For  long  ago  when  the  fields  were  new 

The  fairies  traced  them  and  blessed  them  with  dew 

And  kissed  them  with  freshness  and  crowned  them 

with  green — 
O  faster  and  faster,  my  humming  machine! 

Hum,  hum,  like  the  bees 

In  the  locust  trees 

Where  the  bunches  of  flowers  heavy  with  sweet 

Drip  through  the  branches  to  carpet  my  feet. 

And  higher  than  all — 

A  wanderer  rare — 

There's  a  song  in  the  sunlight, 

A  rhyme  in  the  air. 

It  floats  away,  floats  away  over  the  green — 

Catch  it,  0  catch  it,  my  whirring  machine! 

Sing  of  the  sky 

When  the  ceiling  is  low : 

Sing  the  birds  homing, 

Sing  the  night  coming 

[24] 


Where  night-flowers  blow. 

Bring  a  soft  air, 

Blow  a  sweet  air 

Out  of  the  open,  the  night's  darkened  green — 

Catch  the  air,  hold  it, 

Weave  and  enfold  it — 

Filter  the  day  through  my  dream's  golden  screen- 

O  faster  and  faster,  my  happy  machine!  . 


[25] 


HONEY  FROM  AFAR 

Here  stood  the  miracle  of  lofty  growth — 

A  blossomed  tree, 

Whose  fragrant  crown  above  the  crests  of  green 

We  roamed  the  woods  to  see. 

Here  the  wild  bees  had  made  a  feasting-place, 
And  led  us  from  afar 

To  the  white  circle  of  new-fallen  blooms — 
Each  bloom  a  fallen  star. 

And  now,  though  storms  have  stripped  the  blossomed 

crown, 

The  thunder-blasted  tree 

Still  holds  a  life  that  stirs  its  blackened  depths. 
Made  sweet  with  memory. 

The  home  of  bees!     The  hollow  tree  holds  sweets 
From  many  a  flowered  star, 
All  the  warm  meadows'  summer  fragrances, 
And  honey  from  afar. 


[26] 


THE  FAIRY  WOODS 

Ringed  by  the  sunny-meadowed  hills 
Where  the  slow  cattle  pass, 
The  fairy  woods  have  sprung  to  life 
And  checked  the  creeping  grass. 

Young,  as  the  fairy  world  is  young, 
The  slender  pine-trees  grow: 
The  wind  throughout  their  little  leaves 
Pipes  a  faint  elfin  flow. 

And  the  warm  earth,  thin-carpeted, 
Still  knows  the  touch  of  spring, 
Nor  through  the  summer  quite  forgets 
The  lore  of  blossoming. 

The  tiny  heather-bells  of  pink 
And  silvery  bells  of  blue, 
Ringing  on  airy  leafless  stems, 
Clouded  with  lingering  dew, 

Make  a  soft  mist  of  lavender 
That  floats  above  the  moss, 
And  surges  over  the  faint  track 
Where  the  slow  cattle  cross. 

The  very  wind  is  delicate, 
Fitfully,  gayly  bold, 
And  delicate  the  streaks  of  sun 
That  spread  their  whiter  gold. 

[27] 


Now  for  one  last  long  magic  day 
I  drowse  in  the  pale  sun. 
Another  day,  another  year, 
What  fairies  have  begun 

Nature  will  take.     Her  ample  hand 
Will  ripen  through  the  earth 
Into  a  fuller  richer  growth 
This  miracle  of  birth. 

But  for  my  deep-enchanted  eyes 
The  elfin  bells  still  blow: 
Forever  delicate  and  strange 
The  fairy  woods  shall  grow. 


[28] 


SUMMER  LOVES 

When  I  left  you,  Jeannie, 
You  had  grown  unkind; 
Jeannie,  Jeannie,  was  the  tune 
Running  in  my  mind. 

Round  and  round,  the  little  road 
Turns  upon  the  hill : 
Jeannie,  Jeannie,  runs  the  song 
Of  the  mountain  rill. 

All  along  the  water's  edge 
Wildflowers  are  aflame: 
Yesterday  I  met  a  man 
Who  told  me  each  one's  name. 

Sweet  lavender  and  jewel- weed — 
(Another  little  song, 
Jeannie,  Jeannie,  followed  me 
The  water's  edge  along). 

Sun-drops,  asters,  goldenrod — 
The  chorus  sweeter  grew — 
Jeannie,  they  were  chiming  in 
To  turn  the  air  from  you ! 

Meadow-queen  and  Queen  Anne's  lace- 
It  needed  nothing  more — 
I  could  not  sing  of  simple  Jean 
When  queens  bowed  at  my  door! 
[29] 


Now  "Jeannie"  follows  me  no  more: 
Ten  lovelier  names  I  know; 
My  summer  loves !     I  know  their  hearts, 
The  warm  fields  where  they  blow. 

And  when  they  lie  in  wintry  sleep 
Should  Jeannie  prove  unkind, 
The  sweet  names  of  my  summer  loves 
Will  sing  her  out  of  mind ! 


[30] 


A  fragile  snatch  of  passing  song 
Half  heard,  half  guessed, 
Floats  on  the  dimming  twilight  air, 
And  love  lies  hushed  at  rest. 

Like  soft  rain  through  the  tender  leaves 
The  sweet  airs  blend, 
So  faint  that  fragrance  seems  to  start 
Where  sound  has  met  its  end. 

Unseen  the  rain  dies  in  the  night — 
Unheard,  O  song, 

Breathe  through  the  darkness,  lest  love  wake, 
And  sorrow  over-long. 


[31] 


ANNE  OF  GEIERSTEIN 

There  was  a  youth  who  died  too  young, 
Who  spent  the  silver  of  his  tongue 
In  scorn  of  laws  and  ancient  days, 
And  cut  his  feet  on  stony  ways. 

On  his  last  day  and  days  before, 
He  kept  his  couch,  to  rise  no  more, 
With  all  his  old  intentness  fine 
Perusing  "Anne  of  Geierstein." 

It  was  a  volume  old  and  red, 

His,  when  his  little  curly  head 

Nodded  above  it  by  the  flame, 

Long  past  the  hour  when  bedtime  came. 

Some  far-off  memories  he  sought — 
Some  healing  the  old  volume  brought : 
But  for  me,  hell's  white  places  shine 
When  I  see  "Anne  of  Geierstein." 


[32] 


THE  BLAZE 

He  called  us  in,  and  set  ablaze 

At  once,  the  fuel  of  his  days. 

We  cried  him  back,  but  more  and  more 

He  heaped  on  his  full  lifetime's  store. 

Wild  with  the  glory  of  the  blaze, 
He  cast  in  all  his  future  days 
To  flame  an  aureole  of  red 
About  his  beauteous  brow  and  head. 

And  we — we  cowered  in  the  shade, 
And  stretched  our  hands  half  out,  afraid 
Some  thrust  a  hand  into  the  blaze, 
But  could  not  save  his  future  days. 

All  this  was  long  ago.     Our  pile, 
With  prudent  care,  will  last  awhile. 
We  stir  our  comfortable  blaze, 
And  speak  of  warming  life's  last  days. 

But  there  are  some  whose  folded  hands 
Bear  the  white  scars  of  long-spent  brands 
These  see  forever  the  swift  grace 
Of  that  bright  head  and  beauteous  face. 


[33] 


/  lost  the  colors  of  the  dawn : 
The  noonday  hours,  wheeling  by, 
Brought  ripened  fruit  and  golden  grain 
And  shimmer  of  a  far  hot  sky. 

At  last,  at  last  the  day  was  gone, 
The  long  time  spent :  and  from  the  west 
I  caught  a  freshened  look  of  life 
And  knew  that  dying  is  the  best. 


[34] 


THE  NIGHT  WIND 

Only  the  topmost  boughs  are  stirred, 

The  dark  leaves  lie  asleep. 

Only  the  spring's  new  branches  leap 

To  the  wind's  thrilling  word. 

Unstirred 

Sleeps  the  half-withered  leaf 

Into  whose  dreamings  creep 

Faint  breathings  of  an  air  too  brief 

That  died  with  spring. 

The  topmost  branches  swing 

To  the  wind's  whispering — 

The  dark  leaves  lie  asleep. 


[35] 


TO  THE  MOST  LOVED 

Rumored  upon  the  startled  morn 
That  saw  the  primal  day-spring  rise, 
And  trembling  with  the  latest  dawn 
That  stirs  the  still  pool  of  the  skies — 

Love  still  shall  weave  its  mystic  rune 
In  tapestries  as  richly  spun 
As  when  on  some  far  golden  noon 
The  women  sang  to  Solomon. 

Each  poignant  strain  of  beauty  leaves 
Another  strain  unsung,  untrove: 
My  love  binds  up  its  perfect  sheaves 
And  yet  remains  a  different  love. 

Now,  since  your  sheaves  are  bound  with  gold, 
And  since  your  eyes  reflect  the  spring, 
You  link  new  treasure  to  the  old, 
And  ripened  fruit  to  blossoming. 

The  primal  day  repeats  its  boon, 
And  rumored  love  is  newly  born; 
And  through  the  mystic  golden  noon 
A  woman  sings  to  Solomon. 


[36] 


HARP  MUSIC 

Behind  the  open  golden  strings 
Hang  crimson  velvet  curtainings, 
With  heavy  fringe  of  tarnished  gold 
To  hold  austere  each  fluted  fold — 
Harp-strings  lie  open  to  the  day, 
And  where  they  will  the  runlets  stray, 
Within,  without  the  curtained  gloom, 
And  floating  through  the  music-room 
Like  jets  of  fountain  spray  at  play — 
Harp  music  is  a  run-away! 
Its  tinkling  notes  disdain  to  hoard 
Their  sweetness  with  a  sounding-board; 
Lavish  they  spring  from  each  plucked  string, 
A  fountain  plume  set  shimmering 
To  opalescent  changes  fleet: — 
A  gay  patrol  rides  down  the  street: 
A  Spanish  lover  canters  by: 
A  garland  from  the  Lorelei 
Flings  down  a  handful  of  faint  bloom — 
And  there  are  flowers  in  the  room. 
And  if  the  player,  wise  and  fair, 
Wear  blue  or  green,  and  if  her  hair 
Be  yellow — by  the  amber  strings 
So  easily  a  mermaid  sings  ! 
The  notes,  like  pearls  on  golden  cords, 
Drip  from  the  richness  of  their  hoards : 
And  swift  and  clear,  a  mermaid's  tear, 
A  strange  sea- sorrow,  half  a  fear, 
[37] 


Whispers  its  fleeting  fairy  woe — 
A  mermaid's  harp  might  whisper  so ! 

Harp-strings  are  tuned  to  fairy  play- 
Harp-strings  lie  open  to  the  day — 
Harp  music  is  a  run-away! 


[38] 


A  FANTASY  OF  DANCE 

AT   THE   ORPHEUM 

Where  the  little  poplar-trees 
Two  by  two,  in  mimic  state, 
Cast  their  shadows  ebonese 
On  the  arching  iron  gate — 

Here,  where  antique  vases  hold 
Quaintest  box-trees,  and  austere 
Figures  of  the  nymphs  of  old 
From  the  formal  hedges  peer — 

Here  two  sisters,  dancing  slow 
In  the  twilight's  dim  retreat, 
Circle,  as  the  shadows  grow, 
Dip,  advance  on  sandalled  feet, 

Playing,  at  the  fountain's  brink, 
Hide  and  seek,  to  measure  due: 
One  enscarfed  in  lilac-pink, 
One  enveiled  in  silver-blue. 

Pose,  repose,  and  pirouette — 
Memory,  enchanted  muse, 
Weaves  the  gentle  air's  regret 
On  a  spinet  worn  with  use. 

[39] 


Now  the  circling  pair  retreat 
In  and  out  the  poplar  trees, 
Drooping  o'er  their  sandalled  feet, 
Blowing  kisses  to  the  breeze. 

Through  the  curtain's  velvet  gloom, 
Memory,  enchanted  muse, 
Show  me  still  the  garden's  room, 
While  a  spinet  worn  with  use 

Quavers  from  a  yellowed  page 
Its  belated  roundelay 
Of  a  happy  Golden  Age 
Where  the  gentle  sisters  play — 

Circling  round  the  fountain's  brink- 
Hide  and  seek  to  measure  due, 
One  enscarfed  in  lilac-pink, 
One  enveiled  in  silver-blue. 


[40] 


/  was  the  smallest  fairy 

In  a  world  unknown  to  men : 

You  were  a  rugged  giant 

Who  lived  in  the  Northland  fen. 

Alone  in  the  sunny  lowlands, 
I  spent  the  years  at  play, 
And  listened  for  the  thunder 
That  came  from  far  away — 

The  echo  of  your  footsteps, 
The  far-off  breaking  shock  : 
I  was  the  snowy  marble, 
And  you,  the  granite  rock. 

A  hundred  years  of  echo, 
And  then  the  dreamed-of  fear : 
I  hid  in  the  roots  of  grasses 
For  I  knew  that  you  were  near. 

The  crashing  of  your  footsteps 
Rolled  to  the  lowland  plain; 
You  had  come  to  seek  the  fairy, 
But  you  had  come  in  vain. 

For  down  in  the  roots  of  grasses 
Your  great  hands  could  not  reach : 
You,  with  your  feet  of  thunder, 
And  your  tongue  devoid  of  speech! 


I  trembled  in  my  safety 
And  yearned  to  your  mighty  sound, 
And  longed  to  be  held  and  captured 
Yet  I  lay  close  to  the  ground. 

And  at  last  your  raging  footsteps 
Rolled  back  to  the  Northland  fen 
For  a  hundred  years  of  echo, 
And  so  returned  again. 


[42] 


THE  HONEY  BEE 

Shall  I,  with  such  an  alchemy, 
From  unen joyed  delight 
Transmute  a  richer  treasury 
And  seal  it  in  the  night? 
What  flowers'  deepest  fragrances 
Know  but  my  searching  zest, 
Unspent  in  wanton  vagrancies 
Upon  their  satin  breast? 

For  one  brief  day  of  long  ago 

I  chose  the  rover's  pace, 

When  spring's  full  pools  in  overflow 

Mirrored  the  world's  new  face. 

The  world  was  new,  my  heart  was  new, 

And  where  the  brown  bees  fly 

I  robbed  them  of  their  honey-dew, 

And  mocked  their  husbandry. 

With  ceaseless  toil  unending  springs 
Wipe  out  the  one  day's  grace: 
The  windy  horn  of  autumn  rings 
Through  June's  abandoned  place. 
I  sit  beside  my  honey-comb 
And  ponder  every  cell : 
The  ruddy  hearthstone  flame  of  home 
Glows  in  each  amber  well. 

[431 


Ah,  tender  hands  that  break  the  store 

To  sweeten  every  sense 

With  garnered  flowers  that  bloomed  of  yore — 

Take  your  inheritance ! 

This  is  your  frail  life's  nourishment — 

The  richness  of  my  years, — 

To  stay  your  young  astonishment 

And  mellow  all  your  fears. 

So  I,  with  such  an  alchemy, 
From  unen joyed  delight 
Fashion  for  you  a  treasury 
Against  the  winter's  blight. 
My  flowers'  deepest  fragrances 
Their  ardors  round  you  fling, 
And  spend  my  unspent  vagrancies 
To  keep  eternal  spring! 


[44J 


THE  LESSER  LOVES. 

If  I  have  loved  the  many  loves, 
Nor  held  me  unto  straiter  ways, 
O  call  me  fickle  as  the  sea 
And  liken  me  to  April  days — 

For  as  the  sudden  shower  falls 
From  April  skies  of  sunny  hue, 
The  lesser  loves,  the  many  loves 
Leave  Heaven  its  own  unclouded  blue. 

The  shallow  wavelets  kiss  the  shore 
And  dimple  in  advancing  bands 
To  print  a  fragile  memory 
Upon  innumerable  sands: 

But  far  beyond  their  shifting  play 
The  depths  know  no  uncertainty : 
The  ocean's  heart  forevermore 
Gathers  a  deep  tranquility. 

O  liken  me  to  lesser  waves 
And  let  me  flatter  every  shore, 
And  gather,  like  the  ocean's  heart, 
Depth  upon  depth  forevermore ! 


[45] 


O  someone  in  the  deep,  deep  wood 
Has  set  me  here  and  there 
A  cup  of  wine,  a  cup  of  dew, 
Bubbled  with  fairy  air. 

And  till  I  drink  the  last  sweet  drop 
And  drain  the  last  cup  dry, 
I'm  driven  through  the  deep,  deep  wood, 
And  home  and  all  goes  by. 


[46] 


THE  REFUSAL. 

I  am  an  opening  bud 
Beneath  the  sun's  warm  flood, 
A  blossom  for  the  pleasure  of  the  sun : 
The  inevitable  rose 
As  blindly  grows, 

As  blindly  withers  when  his  light  is  done. 
Yet  when  on  other  flowers 
He  spends  his  golden  hours, 
She  lays  aside  her  state, 
Not  desolate : 
I  crave  another  fate. 
Ah,  think  you  not  the  spray 
That  blooms  and  blooms  each  May 
Wearies  of  wantoning 
With  every  air  of  spring? 
Or  that  the  cold  green  birth 
Slow-pricking  through  the  earth 
Leaves  many  a  sweeter  thing 
Beneath  the  spring? 
Think  you  that  I  would  flower 
To  every  passing  shower, 
To  every  sunbeam  be  the  answering  rose? 
And  yet — how  shall  I  say 
I  will  not  love  in  May? — 
— Here  is  the   song  they  sing  when   winter 
goes : — 

[471 


Blossom,  blossom,  blossom — 
Now  I  kiss  your  mouth — 
Bloom  and  bloom,  my  flower, 
Blossom  like  the  South, 
When  the  wind  of  April 
Blowing  over  May 
Blows  the  winter  branches 
Into  rosy  spray — 
Blows  the  winter  fancies 
Far  and  far  away. 

I  am  a  closing  flower. 
I  give  your  love  its  hour, 
Your  sun  its  day: 
No  other  sun  shall  shine 
On  love  of  mine : 

I  will  not  bloom  and  bloom  to  every  May, 
The  blood  that  sullen  flows 
To  redden  beauty's  rose 
Bears  an  unwilling  heat 
Warm  from  its  deep  retreat. 
So  many  a  sweeter  thing 
Lies  underneath  the  spring! 
Dim  in  the  winter's  lap, 
Low  with  the  deadened  sap, 
Unmoved  of  urging  need, 
Life  lies  asleep  in  seed, 
Remembering 
No  wantonness  of  spring. 
And  so  I  too  would  lie 
[48] 


Soft,  dreamlessly, 

Like  any  withered  rose. 

And  yet — how  shall  I  say 

I  should  not  hear  in  May 

The  little  song  they  sing  when  winter  goes  ? 

Blossom,  blossom,  blossom — 
Now  I  kiss  your  mouth — 
Bloom  and  bloom,  my  flower, 
Blossom  like  the  South, 
When  the  wind  of  April 
Blowing  over  May, 
Blows  the  winter  branches 
Into  rosy  spray — 
Blows  the  winter  fancies 
Far  and  far  away. 


[49] 


THE  SUNBEAM 

You  are  the  flight  of  countless  wings 
Of  gossamer  and  vair — 
A  rainbow  stream,  a  fairy  shaft 
Through  my  imprisoned  air. 

And  where  is  now  my  strip  of  sky, 
My  lattice-chequered  tree? — 
O  too  much  pain,  to  gather  you 
In  one  bright  unity! 


[50] 


SUBTERRANEAN 

All  that  sings  itself  to  sleep 
In  the  twilight  sunken  deep, 
All  that  changes  winter  tears 
To  hidden  jewels  of  the  years — 

This  is  all  I  do  not  live, 
What  I  could  give  and  never  give. 
Deepest  in  my  soul  they  lie — 
Wings  that  never  knew  the  sky. 

Deepest  in  my  soul  are  spent 
Unshot  arrows,  bows  unbent: 
Dimly  substanced  in  the  earth, 
The  golden  crown  awaits  its  birth. 


[51] 


Too  long  I  sat  at  Spartan  boards 

And  drank  from  flagons  bare, 

And  crushed  the  sunny-blossomed  wreaths 

That  you  were  used  to  wear. 

For  other  labor  than  your  praise 
I  left  you  for  a  space; 
And  now  the  winds  of  all  the  world 
Know  not  your  hiding  place. 


[52] 


THE  CARPET 

Undulate, 

Spring  before  your  master, 

Dancer ! 

Do  you  know  that  the  new  carpet 

Spreading  its  thick  colors  in  homage  at  his  feet 

Renders  imperfect  homage,  rebels  at  all  its 

edges  ? 
—Leap  in,  clack  the  chains  that  weight  your 

heavy  ceinture, 
Flash   the   shining   harness    laced   over   your 

flesh, 
Lift  your  cinctured  arms :  the  music  rises. 

Wonderful,  wonderful  carpet ! 
Spirals  of  crimson  awhirl 
Under  the  stamping  clanking 
Feet  of  the  dancing  girl — 

Shimmering  wavering  parrots 
Clutching  their  perches  of  pearl 
Crushed  by  the  crinkle-soled,  pink-stained 
Feet  of  the  dancing  girl ! 

Clack,  clack, 

The  parrots  are  safe — 

They  are  near  the  centre. 

The  weight  of  the  harness  is  nothing, 

The  body  bears  it  lightly, 

Leaping  in  the  air. 

[53] 


The  drum,  the  drum — 

Spirals  of  bronze  lead  outward 

To  the  border  of  bursting  grapes : 

The  race  begins. 

Be  still,  wreathe  with  your  arms, 

Bend  from  your  naked  middle, 

Bend  backward,  brush  the  grapes  with  your 
fingers, 

Push  out  your  breasts,  nippled  with  cups  of 
metal, 

Laced  with  cobweb  chains  of  gold : 

The  plumes  of  your  helmet  recover, 

Sweep  forward,  sweep  the  floor  before  you. 

Clack — the  music — the  grapes  must  be  ad 
ventured. 

Backward  a  step — presently  you  will  stumble. 

At  the  corner  vine  meets  vine 

Twisting  together, 

Creeping  out  to  the  floor, 

Running  off  into  air  at  the  point. 

At  the  corner 

The  dancer  runs  from  the  carpet 

Over  the  escaping  tendrils, 

Plunges  from  the  nearest  window 

Flashing  through  the  sunlight 

Into  the  courtyard  pool: 

The  weight  of  her  harness  drags  her  under. 

In  harems  too  there  are  obsessions. 
[54] 


PASSION  IN  THE  BALLET 

THE   FAVORITE   SLAVE 

He  crouches  in  the  corridor 

And  hears  upon  the  marble  floor 

The  men-at-arms  step  out,  step  out, 

The  heavy  cushions  tossed  about : 

And  in  his  ecstasy  he  hears 

A  step  approach.     The  darkness  clears, 

The  key  has  turned,  the  curtain  falls, 

And  in  his  ecstasy  he  crawls 

Over  the  squares  of  black  and  white, 

And  sees — and  crouches  at  the  sight — 

Her  long  slim  flanks,  her  crimson  vest, 

Her  bright  head  with  bright  metal  dressed. 

He  flinches  from  her  lowered  gaze 

And  waits :  the  languid  music  stays. 

Upon  his  knee,  upon  his  feet, — 
He  hears  a  reedy  summons  sweet. 
His  fingers  at  her  ankles  cling, 
His  fingers  at  her  sandal-string — 
In  measured  time,  to  measured  beat, 
Pluck  at  the  bangles  of  her  feet. 
Now,  as  the  horns  cry  out  "Arise !" 
His  hands  caress  her  flattened  thighs, 
And,  led  by  flutes,  slip  up  her  arms — 
In  measure  to  her  measured  charms. 
[551 


Too  long,  too  long  the  flutes  delay! 
Should  but  a  single  viol  play — 
A  spring  of  tightened  muscle — then — 
Her  lips ! — The  flutes  begin  again. 

The  time  has  changed.     A  beating  doom 
Throbs  from  the  'cello.     In  the  room 
The  master  stands.     The  drums  begin — 
The  men-at-arms  step  in,  step  in. 
The  thunder  breaks — Now,  viols,  now! — 
His  lips  leap  writhing  to  her  brow — 

Death,  or  a  darkened  corridor 
Unchains  the  mimic  from  the  floor, 
From  the  cold  music's  meted  strain — 
Approach,  conceded  with  a  chain. 


[56] 


CARYATID 

RODIN 

My  hands  hold  up  my  breasts, 

Push  up  my  crushed  shoulder — 

How  shall  I  bear  this  weight? 

(I  have  asked  you  only  for  bread). 

You  have  cut  me  with  knives, 

You  have  lashed  my  skin  with  fine  long  whips 

of  thread; 

There  is  no  breath  in  my  throat. 
(I  have  not  asked  for  the  wine.) 
I  had  thought  of  knives  that  would  sunder 

bonds, 

But  your  knives  have  cut  my  flesh. 
I  had  thought  to  toss  aside  this  rock, 
To  stretch  out  my  arms,  to  breathe  deep  and 

full. 
I  would  cast  on  my  tunic  and  be    with     the 

others  under  the  broad  shade-tree. 

Is  this  not  for  me? 
Then  hold  back  your  knives, 
Cast  aside  the  lashes. 
(I  ask  no  longer  for  bread.) 
Give  me  strength. 
Let  me  bear  up  the  rock 
Insensate  as  its  bulk. 
Let  me  become  as  my  burden. 
[57] 


Give  me  strength — 
The  strength  of  stone- 
To  strain  eternally, 
Without  desire, 
Without  dream. 


[58] 


FROM  A  FLAT  HOUSE-TOP 
I. 

Finally  away  from  the  people, 

Finally  alone  in  the  dark, 

High  up  on  the  roof 

With  my  tree  close  to  me ! 

Now  the  tears  can  flow, 

Now  arms  can  be  stretched  out  to  the  sky, 

The  heart  can  break  in  sobs. 

O  at  last  to  be 

Free  alike  from  life  and  immortality ! 

To  hear  no  more  voices 

Save  the  gentle  voice  of  the  wind 

Stirring  the  leaves — 

To  whisper  to  the  stars, 

And  droop,  mysterious  and  silent, 

In  the  still  heat  of  noon : 

To  have  no  more  kisses, 

But  the  slipping  touch  of  the  rain : 

And  to  feel  no  more  the  vagueness  of  longing, 

But  to  suffer  patiently  through  drought! 

O  my  tree! 

At  last,  at  last  to  be 

Free  alike  from  life  and  immortality! 


[591 


II. 

In  winter  we  buy  warmth, 

In  summer,  ice. 

Who  can  change  the  seasons? 

Love,  that  I  would  flee, 

Love  watches  for  me  in  the  door-ways, 

Dogging  my  footsteps; 

His  hands  are  hot  upon  me. 

O  neighbor  woman, 

You  who  are  longing  for  love, 

Lay  your  cold  hands  on  my  forehead: 

Stretch  out  your  cold  hands  to  love, 

Entreat  him,  and  he  will  leave  us; 

And  you,  who  hate  peace, 

Shall  be  at  peace. — 

But  how  shall  I  avoid  the  door-ways? 


[60] 


III. 

On  the  roof  next  to  mine 

My  neighbor  plays  the  mandolin ; 

But  his  wife  does  not  sing. 

Such  a  little  space  lies  between  us, 

Not  enough  to  hold  a  tree: — 

A  thin  black  shaft  of  deepest  night, 

Easily  stepped  over, 

But  insurmountable  without  a  prelude. 

Lacking  the  prelude, 

The  player  lacks  a  voice, 

And  my  voice  is  silent. 

Is  your  silent  wife  beside  you,  neighbor? 

Send  her  down  into  the  street, 

And  I  will  step  over  the  well  of  night 

And  lend  you  what  you  need: — 

I  will  lend  you  my  voice  first. 


[61] 


IV. 

I  will  not  meet  you  on  the  street — 
Your  mandolin,  your  mandolin 
Can  tell  me  all  I  long  to  know, 
A  little  truth,  and  lies  too  sweet 
To  verify  upon  the  street. 
Upon  the  street  your  mouth  is  cold, 
Your  eyes  are  weary  in  the  light, 
Your  voice  is  harsher  than  the  fall 
Of  tinkling  music  in  the  night. 
Be  voice  as  soft  as  voice  can  be, 
It  cannot  murmur  like  my  tree. 
Ah,  could  I  step  across  the  night 
An  apparition  to  your  sight — 
Your  mouth  might  smile  less  wearily, 
And  something  in  you  answer  me 
Unlike  the  man  I  will  not  meet 
Upon  the  street. 
Your  mandolin's  faint  tinkle  thin 
Can  tell  me  all  I  long  to  know — 
A  little  truth,  and  lies  too  sweet 
To  verify  upon  the  street. 


[62: 


V. 


Tree  that  I  must  leave! 

I  have  come  at  last 

To  tell  you  three  things  : — 

There  are  other  roofs  under  the  stars — 

There  are  men  whose  eyes  are  not  weary— 

And  there  is  a  love  whose  hands 

Are  cool  as  night's  dripping  fountains. 

Now  all  the  words  that  I  have  spoken 

Into  the  darkness 

Vanish  with  the  night  wind: — 

There  is  but  one  word 

That  stars  the  universe. 

O  my  tree! 

At  last,  at  last  to  be 

Made  free  of  life  and  immortality! 


[63] 


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